The British sculptor, Henry Moore, stopped halfway through the first chapter of Erich Neumann’s book, The Archetypal World of Henry Moore (1959) because, as he later said, “I did not want to know about these things. . . . I did not want such aspects of my work to become henceforth self-conscious. I feel they should remain subconscious and the work should remain intuitive.”

I don’t know whether it was a sign of strength or weakness, but I was halfway through the creation of this large collage, The Marriage of Sol and Luna, before I realized what I was making might be symbolic of a lunar eclipse. Days after that I learned a lunar eclipse was soon to occur, in a rare coincidence with the day of the winter solstice. At that point I was within striking distance of finishing the work, which took me nearly a month of long days to complete. Thus it was with conscious intention that I laid down the last of what seemed like a million (probably closer to 10,000) tiny collage pieces within one hour of the occurrence of the solstice, on December 21, 2010.

The dark lines which curve throughout the piece, dividing it into many smaller sections, are in fact a single line which I made at the outset, never picking up the pen until the line, through its labyrinthine twists, turns, and undulations, was finished. I established the area of the inner white circle by tracing a 78 vinyl record. The template for the larger white circle was an enormous quilting hoop that once belonged to the grandmother of my college roommate.

In his notes for the 1937 article, “The Sculptor Speaks,” Henry Moore wrote this: “The subconscious plays a great part in art, that is to say that in conceiving & realising a work a great deal happens which cannot be logically explained–the mind jumps from one stage to another much further on without there being traceable steps shown between–preferences for one shape over another which cannot be explained–sudden solutions which cannot be followed step by step–in a word–inspiration.”

Part of the ongoing, and sometimes difficult task of the artist, is to cooperate with this process, rather than imposing one’s self in a way that occludes or subverts it.

16th Annual Crafts at the Cathedral, New York City. December 2-4, 2011. Sponsored by the Congregation of St. Saviour, The Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine, 1047 Amsterdam Ave., New York, NY. www.craftsatthecathedral.com.

My upbringing, along with a certain aspect of my nature, occasionally lead me to question why I do what I do, which is Make Art. On the face of it, a wood block with bits of paper glued to it seems useless, even to me. Certainly it would seem, although pretty, also pretty useless to the people who reared and educated me. Even now, some of the people who visit my booth at art shows must surely go away with that opinion when they pick up the block and discover that it does not even open; it is not a box. Although a box is not a complex technology, it does have a purpose–to hold things, to organize. If I were to make a box and make it large enough, it could hold an entire collection of useless things–even my collaged blocks–and that would make it useful, but with some futility to its usefulness.

And it’s not far, then, to the question, “If I make useless things, am I useful?”

I am going to abandon this line of questioning before I get mired in it because it is impractical in its practicality. Art, which masquerades as a materiality, is much more than that. So, frankly, are we humans, whether or not we are lovers or makers of art. The question “What’s the use?”, so delightfully musically elaborated upon in Leonard Bernstein’s Candide, is too small for who we are. What we love is what we love, often for no good reason, or at least none that we

can articulate. Furthermore, what cheers and encourages us in life–even makes it worth living–can often be proved by some scheme of logic to be gratuitous. One could even say that life itself is gratuitous. But we are here anyway, and that is what we must deal with–practically. And here, also, is this collaged block.

Perhaps the puzzled visitors to my art booth, upon discovering the block does not open, are not really asking “What’s the use?” but “How shall I relate to this thing? How does it fit into my life.”

That is a personal question. I can’t answer that for another person, any more than I can tell them what their favorite color should be, or with whom they should fall in love. I like to see the art I make go home with people who have connected with it, even “fallen in love.” Personally, that is why I buy art. I can’t buy all the art I love, but I love the art I buy.

I cannot explain exactly how this works, but these apparently useless pieces I spend my days making do somehow, sometimes, in their abstractness and wordlessness, speak to people. I am always surprised when somebody seems to “get it” because I’m not certain I always get it myself. The thing I know is that I love to create and that there is nothing in the world I want to do more than what I am doing. Somehow, sometimes, that message seems to be communicated in the art.

The thing about handmade things, whether or not they have an apparent use, is that something of the spirit of their maker is invested in them, whether or not the maker or receiver are conscious of that being the case. Every now and then I look around at the walls and surfaces of my home and realize that the many pieces of art I own are somehow challenging and comforting me, and also nurturing my own creative spirit. Furthermore, they are giving me pleasure.

That is no small achievement for an inanimate object.

I am a great appreciator of the work of the British sculptor, Henry Moore, who died in 1986 at age 88. In a 1964 article published in a French journal, Moore is quoted. “I believe that art in itself is akin to religion,” he said. “Art is, in fact, another expression of the belief that life is worth living.”

If I may borrow a religious term, art is “sacramental.” It does not just sit there, it speaks, it conjures connections, stirs our feelings and imaginations, surprises, delights, and moves us, and reminds us of how wonderful it can be to be a human being. An artwork conveys something of its creator when that person is in his or her very best mind, which is the creative mind through which the artwork came to being. Furthermore, it is emblematic of some sort of striving and triumph, the completion of a tiny heroic quest undertaken in order to create the artwork. A work of art presents us, then, with a living experience, perhaps stirring to life some beauty sleeping within us. Now I am not saying that any of the art images I’ve posted here are necessarily doing that for you, but I am saying that there is art that can speak to you like a friend, and that is personal and valuable. Maybe even, in the grand scheme of things, useful.

The combined materials in this mandala present a reconciliation of sorts, a peaceful coming to terms with the crosscurrents of life. The dried roses at the center are from a former husband (or, as I wrote on the box into which I packed them for the movers, “Dead roses from my ex-husband”). They were beautiful to me, nonetheless, and since both he and I gained much from our association with one another, it seemed good to keep them, and then use them (along with pieces of stems from those flowers) in this collage. When a very special man appeared on the scene more than four years after the last roses, he loved to bring me tulips. I have learned that if one drops one’s preconceptions about what constitutes a lovely flower, the tulip possesses an individual winsomeness in every stage of its flowering and withering. Therefore I used dried petals saved from flowers Steve brought me to form the middle circle of flowers, bringing flowers from the past and flowers from the present together. I also incorporated the base of garlic stems (those whiteish discs surrounding the rose centerpiece) and pieces of broken glass (I think of it as “naturally” faceted glass, and often find it both interesting and beautiful) into the center of the collage.

Radiating to the outer rim of the piece are the 31 lines of a poem I created for the work:

1 Why any flower may be
2 being but a day
3 a week
4 to die too soon.
5 But in the life of dying
6 quickly saying
7 what may be
8 fragrant
9 lovely
10 reaching
11 seeding
12 softening edges
13 of the earth
14 to tell the wisdom:
15 ALL MUST CHANGE.
16 All changes,
17 all rolling to
18 Death rolling to
19 Life rolling on:
20 YOU, PAY ATTENTION!
21 In the dying
22 is beauty also
23 if you see.
24 Flower of the world
25 never bloom or fade
26 far from the rooms
27 where I, as you
28 go swiftly, softly
29 as we are
30 and will be and always
31 to never be taken back.

“Makarios,” is an ancient Greek word for happiness, connoting in particular the happiness of God. This mandala is somehow, in my mind, emblematic of divine cheer, the revelling of a creator in his or her creation.

It seems miraculous to me when I suddenly see something (or someone) common to me in a new way. This happened to me last year when I was preparing one of my favorite dishes for my friend, Judith, who was coming to lunch. What I saw suddenly differently was an inedible byproduct of my food production I was about to throw in the trash. I saw its natural beauty, both sides. It is now incorporated (or one like it) into the mandala pictured above, which I have given the musical title, “Rondo.” A rondo, incidentally, is an instrumental musical composition in which the leading theme is repeated alternately with other themes. And of course the Italian word rondo does somewhat suggest the notion of roundness.

The regular concentricity of the “Rondo” mandala, combined with the slight variations in the materials, highlight for me how commodities manufactured from natural materials–here, various papers–may through time, use, and exposure, gradually return to nature. Much of the paper in “Rondo” had a musical use. One readily recognizes the sheet music embellishing the scalloped border. Less obvious is the origin of the paper used in the dark outer ring–paper salvaged from disintegrating sheaths that once protected vinyl 78 records in an album. The paper, worn soft, was extremely absorbent of the varnish I applied at the end; I did not anticipate how much it would darken, but I liked the effect it created. I also incorporated paper from an old, unused photo album, from a copy of The Oresteia by Aeschylus I found in a dumpster (I already had the play), and from a discarded menu from the restaurant Chino Latino in Minneapolis.

The almost-finished collage, however, seemed to call for something more at its center. I studied it a long time, considering various possibilities–freshwater pearls? a piece of glass? a flat rusty bottle cap from my collection?

"Rondo." Detail.

In the detail of Rondo (left), one may see what I settled upon–a centerpiece that blends without getting lost, that stands out as unique without being ostentatious, that is sufficiently–but not slavishly– symmetrical, and that appears, above all, natural. That’s because it is.

But what is it? you may wonder. Or do you know?

What I saved as a byproduct of food preparation, and have been saving ever since, was what remained of the stem of a knob of garlic. Not all stems look like this one. Some are smooth. I find the other side, where the cloves of garlic attach, equally beautiful.

The recipe, for Roasted Garlic au Gratin, is good too–if you like garlic (and maybe even if you don’t). My friend Judith, for whom I have made the recipe maybe 10 or 12 times (every time she comes to lunch) once responded to my query that perhaps she would like me to make something different, with a sad-sounding, “What? No garlic?” Below is the recipe, which is VERY amenable to experimentation. Creativity is not just for art and artists, but for all of us, and all of life.

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Roasted Garlic au Gratin

Use a small (6″ to 8″ in diameter) ceramic or glass oven-proof dish. Pour in white or red wine and a little olive oil, enough to cover the bottom of the dish.

Lay down a layer or two of fresh, whole, peeled garlic cloves. (I’ve used cloves from 4 or 5 or more full knobs of garlic. As you ready the garlic, be sure to appreciate the beauty of the stems, regardless if you save or discard them.) Then pour on more wine, maybe some half-and-half, and a little more olive oil. If you want.

Mix with that pecans or slivered almonds, or other nuts you like. Or forget the nuts if you don’t like nuts. Sprinkle that with fresh or dried basil and/or a pinch of some other herb (oregano, dill, rosemary, marjoram, etc.), and a little brown sugar. Top that with as much parmesan cheese as suits you. If you want to sprinkle on anything more–parmesan, wine, brown sugar, basil–go ahead. I’ve also put in golden raisins on occasion. Once I put in figs. A few times I’ve added diced fresh tomatoes.

Cover with foil or a lid and bake at 350 degrees for 45 or 50 minutes, even an hour. This isn’t rocket science; it isn’t even cake chemistry. Use your judgment and sense of your own taste (i.e., do you like your cheese dark and crispy, or do you want the whole thing to be pale and juicy?) When it’s done the garlic cloves should be soft enough to spread. This dish goes very well with roasted garlic and onion jam. Serve with bread, pita, or crackers, or whatever else suits you.